Bleeding Out
by PSPGamerGirl
Summary: "You're surrounded now. You don't know how many you've slaughtered–you've lost count–but it doesn't matter. The situation is the same. At least, that's what you tell yourself." (Another take on the Battle of Five Armies)


**Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this (I would advise a tissue). It's my first Hobbit fic, and likely my last, but if you want to see me write more, do drop a review and say so!**

**Also, if you guys could check out _Bleeding Out_ by _Imagine Dragons_, that would be cool. It's what I was listening to while I wrote this, and it's where I got the name for the fic.**

**Enjoy.  
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The first thing that's able to break past your exhaustion in hours is dread. It's a bone cold, horrifying despair that cuts into you like the honed tip of your sharpest arrow as you watch your leader, your _uncle_, get dragged to the ground by a Wild Wolf with sharp, gleaming teeth.

You can't wait to see the outcome of the greater battle: this smaller one has become far more important to you. An arrow you can't recall pulling from your quiver finds its way into the shoulder of the beast that dared attack your kin; it yelps and stumbles back from its would-be kill. Your blood-stained fingers reach back again, ready to send a more accurate shot between the two solid black, beady eyes staring at you, but they catch only air: your quiver is empty. Too long. This fight has gone on too long.

With a yell of rage, you draw on a reserve of energy you hadn't known you'd been saving and charge forward with your sword instead. Your bow, once a finely crafted, priceless possession to you, is abandoned to the ashen dirt beneath your feet. You don't stop to think if you might need it again.

Metal collides with bone and you push the beast back as far away from its true prey as you possibly can. The element of surprise was the creature's only advantage; it's no match for you in honorable combat. Exhausted yells repeatedly leave your mouth as you strike again and again. Perhaps the last strike isn't needed, but you drive your sword through its torso all the same and yank it out with equal force.

The battle streaks grey around you–no other colors, nothing but grey and washed out red–and everything blurs for a moment before the shaded tones coalesce into the recognizable shape of a tall dwarf lying on the ground.

"Thorin!"

You cry his name, but you get no response. He's alive–you can tell by movement of his head as he tries to follow your voice–but he's not to be rejoining this battle. His weapon lies just out of his reach, half covered in the colorless dirt that spans the entire battlefield. One goblin has already noticed him as a free kill waiting to happen, for it is taking its time stalking towards him.

You want to reach back–you're ravenous for an arrow–but that option isn't available anymore, so instead, you cut him off, stepping in front of your kin to block the line of sight. Hideous eyes that promise death to all that's fair and good rise to meet yours, and they say all in one instant what you'd speak aloud if you had the energy.

_I'll die to protect him. One or twenty of you won't matter: you won't reach him. _

The challenge is accepted. The first goblin goes down easily, along with the next three who spot you and Thorin, but your fingers are beginning to cramp. Your muscles are burning, burst of fire running through your sinew every moment you use them, and they've started to shake with the effort. When did this sword become so heavy? You've never had any trouble lifting it before.

You're surrounded now. You don't know how many you've slaughtered–you've lost count–but it doesn't matter. The situation is the same. At least, that's what you tell yourself. The truth is it's so much _harder_ to move now. You feel slow, hindered by chains of fatigue, but you can't will your limbs to move any faster. Your breath passes between your cracked, dry lips erratically, and dust settles on your tongue. Your heart slams faster than ever before against the walls of your chest; your calves are seizing up, and your knees are buckling so low, you're almost on one knee.

But no. _No._ If you lose this now, you not only lose your life, but leave your kin at the mercy–not that there will be any–of these horrid creatures. You can't give in. You struggle to stay on your feet, forcing your head high as if to declare your relation to Thorin's proud, royal blood. The next goblin gets his arm taken off; and the next, his head. You're withering the numbers around you, but you know it's not enough. You can't do this alone._ Not alone. _

Then, it happens. What you've been expecting since the beginning of this battle, but desperately attempting to avoid.

Your breath hitches, catching at the base of your throat as a sword drives past your empty quiver and into your tunic, sliding through the skin on your back. The sounds of battle fade. Your lips part to scream, but despite the agony of cold, sharp metal piercing your torso, you can barely utter the pained grunt that leaves your throat. If you were to look down, you'd probably find the blade protruding from your front, but you're in too much shock. Your eyes are wide and staring at the overcast sky as your sword falls from your hand.

The blade is pulled from you in a rush. You can't tell why, but a vague, dimming part of your mind realizes the foul creature would relish its kill if it could.

_"Thorin?_" you wonder absently as your knees fail you.

You fall back, crumpling to what should be the hard, dusty ground, but isn't. Your shoulders are caught and lowered gently until you're held in a reclined position just off the ground. Your head drops to the side, resting against the shoulder of the dwarf holding you.

"Kili!" Your head is nudged so it falls back, giving you a good look at the blond above you. No, not Thorin after all. Even in as you lie there, your life fading, you could never fail to recognize his face.

Tears are dropping from your brother's familiar eyes. You want to speak with him one last time, but the blood bubbling in your throat chokes the words into nonexistence. All you can do is grip the front of his bloody tunic and try to keep your heavy eyelids from falling shut by focusing on him. It could almost be peaceful, in a way, if it weren't for how much trouble you're having getting air in and out of your damaged lungs.

Your time together is shattered as more goblins approach the two of you and he's forced to look up. He gaze now darts from you to them and back in a distraught manner, and you know he's torn between staying with you in your final moments and defending you and your uncle.

You force your hand to release its death grip on his tunic and grab his hand. His attention diverts fully back to you, and you narrow your eyes as best you can, blinking repeatedly. "_Go,_" is what you mean to say, but it comes out as more of a gurgled grunt than a word. He knows you, though, and he knows what you want.

He takes in a breath, another tear falling as he gives a hesitant nod and sets you on the ground gently. He lets out a war cry, sounding like a wounded, enraged beast as he snatches up his weapon from where he must have dropped it to catch you.

You watch numbly–you can no longer feel grit on your skin or the growing pool of blood beneath you–as he tears through dozens of goblins. He's already growing tired, though, just as you were in his position. With each enemy he takes down, you hope desperately he'll be able to defeat the next. You think if he holds on, perhaps he'll last long enough for one of the others to come to his aid. You wouldn't even mind an _elf's_ help right now if it means your brother will live.

He's doing well, watching his weaknesses–he's always been a little lax of protecting his left side–and catching his opponents'. You start to think he may make it, but the idea is snatched away as fast as it comes.

An arrow. Of all things, a stray arrow, not even meant for him, sends him to the ground. The irony is not lost not you.

Tears drop from your eyes as you watch him struggle for a breath of air. You know all too well the best places to land an arrow; he doesn't have long.

"Fili," you choke out, barely a whisper. You can feel blood leak out onto your lips at the small movement.

Whether he heard you or he just wants to see you, you can't tell, but his head rolls to the side and your eyes connect again. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize that he's succeeded in stalling long enough to save Thorin from an easy execution. Dori, Nori, and Ori are fighting off the goblins–and the wolves that have joined them–while Balin rushes to Fili's side. They must have seen the arrow hit him.

Balin's too late. You already know that, so you don't bother hoping.

Fili doesn't let his eyes leave yours until they glaze over, slowly fluttering before falling shut. You want to scream, want to pick up a weapon and kill anything foolish enough to get close to you, but you can't. You can't even stop the tears clouding your vision from falling faster.

The only comfort you can find is another pair of dark eyes. Your uncle's strong gaze doesn't waver. Even from in his position, beaten and barely alive on the cold ground, he isn't going to let you die alone. He's here for you, and you silently thank him for that as your already shallow breath hitches again. You fight, rasping, trying to hang on, and your muscles twitch. Eye contact doesn't break, though. At least, not until the very end. Not until you release one last, shuddering breath and let the cold embrace of death have you. Then your eyes fall shut, a last tear momentarily catching on your eyelashes before falling silently to the ground.

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***blows nose* Well, that's it guys. I know there are other takes on this scene that _should have been in the book_, but this was I imagined to happen. Hope you got a good cry out of it.**

**Also, let it be known that this would never have been a good fic if it weren't for the best beta in the world (who I was fortunate enough to get): ScribeOfRed. THANK YOU SO MUCH.  
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**Until next time,**

**~ Olivia Leitner**


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